


Drift

by Little_DegenerateX



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Painplay, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12097581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_DegenerateX/pseuds/Little_DegenerateX
Summary: Set sometime after the Fall in an ambiguous future. Will has learned to find peace from his thoughts, with the occassional help of Hannibal and his scalpel.





	Drift

**Author's Note:**

> TW for descriptions of blood, and descriptions of manipulating cuts with intent to worsen.  
> The painplay is described more as sensation by Will's inner monologue but there is an element of pain being part of the pleasure he's feeling.
> 
> Pretty sure that covers it, but since this is my first fic being posted I welcome any pointers on if I missed tagging or warning for something.

Will watched Hannibal’s hands, his breath catching in his throat as anticipation coiled tight inside of him; Hannibal’s movements were controlled, collected and precise as he organised the objects on the tray beside Will’s hip.

Will shifted, pulling on the soft suede ropes that bound his arms over his head to the headboard, relishing the lack of give; the feeling of restraint was a welcome one, leaving him helpless to Hannibal’s purpose leaving him free to feel without thoughts muddling things. Hannibal would give him what he needed, give them both what they wanted, and the only thing Will had to do was lie there and take it.

"Will."

Will’s eyes flashed up from Hannibal’s hands to his dark eyes at the sound of his name.

Hannibal was gazing at him intently, sharing in the anticipation but absent from the frantic need Will could feel building inside.

"Please," he blurted out, eager and rushed, wanting. "Hannibal-"

"Hush, Will," Hannibal soothed, one latex gloved hand coming down to press on Will’s chest firmly. "I know."

Will nodded jerkily, biting his lip, his gaze tracking back to the tray. Hannibal made an amused sound, and his other hand picked up the rubbing alcohol.

Will shivered at the cold press of it as Hannibal laved his skin, and he watched the pattern being drawn, the lines of brown along his collarbone, down between and under his pecs, arching over his ribs and the soft flesh of his sternum and belly, all the way down to his pelvis and then flaring over his hips.

He was lost for a long moment in imagining what it would like completed, a framing of his body for Hannibal’s aesthetic pleasure and his own more physical need. And then Hannibal had the scalpel in his hand, pressing it to the thin skin over his collarbone.

Their eyes met, a brief second that lasted for an eternity.

"Watch,"Hannibal commanded.

Unable to do anything except comply, Will looked down. And he watched Hannibal’s skilled, dextrous hands draw the sharp blade along his skin, parting it so cleanly that Will felt nothing. Yet.

He watched Hannibal follow his design, all of the cuts uniform and precise and beautiful. As the scalpel reached the curve of his ribs, the sharp sting of the first slice hit Will, and he inhaled deeply, his eyelids fluttering at the sensation. It was a domino effect from there, as the pain flowed along Hannibal’s creation, following the lines he'd made and leaving behind a trail of fire that made Will struggle not to shift or squirm.

It was an overwhelming mass of sensation, making Will desperate for more, for Hannibal to cut deeper. Deep enough to expose his insides, carve out a physical space for himself to match the metaphorical one he'd already forged.

He was only vaguely aware of Hannibal putting the scalpel down, lost to the tide of raging sensation, beginning to float as his mind cleared and the pain took over everything.

Gloved hands traced the path of cuts from the beginning. Hannibal’s touch was not gentle; he pressed and squeezed, making more blood flow in rivulets down Will’s sweat sheened body.

He pried slices open and manipulated Will’s aching flesh, adding to the pain and sending Will flying higher, making him writhe and gasp and moan as his mind gave up the last bit of resistance and he couldn't concentrate on anything except his body’s overwhelmed sensations.

~

When Will came back to himself, he was untied, warm and dry, and curled up on his side with his head pillowed on Hannibal’s thigh. His torso was pleasantly numb in a way that promised future throbbing, which sent a thrill of contentment through him.

The days following these sessions were often filled with Hannibal’s teeth dragging along healing cuts, inflaming and bruising them, prolonging the healing until they left faint, near-invisible scars. Lines of healed but marked skin that was only for them.

Sex would come later, when they showered and the hot water and steam reopened Hannibal’s art, and Hannibal held him up from behind as he thrust into him, hands greedy and ruthless over Will’s abused skin. For now, though, with the only sound that of their breathing and the turning of pages of Hannibal’s book, and Hannibal’s hand carding gently through his hair, Will drifted, mind and body eased and at peace.


End file.
